


Three Days

by TheStageManager



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Obi-Wan Kenobi Gets a Hug, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Psychological Torture, Qui-Gon Jinn Is a Good Master, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:55:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26206030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStageManager/pseuds/TheStageManager
Summary: When Qui-Gon finally found his padawan, when the creaking doorway opened and light spilled into the suffocating darkness, he ignited his saber and moved forward with great trepidation, almost afraid of what he would find when the twisting darkness lifted.His padawan had only been missing for three days. But so many terrible things can go wrong in such a short amount of time.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 167





	Three Days

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tessiete](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessiete/gifts).



> I’m which I blatantly rip off the plot of the episode “Chain of Command” from Star Trek: TNG.

The Jedi taught their students that time was a relative thing. Scientifically speaking, minutes and hours and days and years—the gradual shift between night and day, the ever changing seasons—were based on the rotational speed and axial tilt of the planetary body in question, as well as its orbital speed and distance from its mother star. The faster a planet rotated on its axis, the shorter the days and nights would be. The greater the distance between a planet and a star, the longer the passing years were bound to stretch on.

However, the actual perception of the _passage_ of time was purely subjective. For example, consider the passage of, say, three days. What were three days from the perspective of a merrifly, who, after metamorphosis, had only a few hours to mate and lay eggs before it, having lost its digestive system during transformation, inevitably starved to death? What were three days from the perspective of a star, whose heart would continue to fuse hydrogen into helium for billions and billions and billions of years? What were three days from the perspective of a young man who, while waiting for the next educational season to begin, spent peaceful, lazy days sleeping in and watching holonovels? Or a little girl whose father would be surprising her with a Loth wolf pup for her Name Day, three tantalizing days away? _  
_

What were three days from the perspective of a master whose student had gone missing? What were three days from the perspective of a padawan who had been captured and mercilessly tortured for three days straight, without more than a few hours between each beating to rest?

_(It was a strange thing: in his bleakest moments, when he felt he as if his body was about to break, as if he was mere moments away from joining the Force, Obi-Wan couldn’t help but to feel that he had been lucky; it had been a great pleasure to have lived in that galaxy with the stars and the Loth wolves—both of whom, from somebody’s perspective, were eternal.)_

When Qui-Gon found his padawan, when the creaking doorway opened and light spilled into the suffocating darkness, he ignited his saber—a soft green glow brushing up against the corners of the room, causing the shadows to scatter and flee like mice—and moved forward with great trepidation, almost afraid of what he would find when the twisting darkness lifted.

Qui-Gon, as he moved dutifully forward, considered the room itself; it was a surprisingly large room—longer than it was wide—and reminded him, somewhat, of the Initiate Classrooms in the temple. It wasn’t at all what he had been expecting; the walls were clean and white (presumably polished plastoid) and the tiled floors—alternating squares of black and white—were completely devoid of dirt and blood and rust. At the front of the room, nearest the door, was a lightweight, false-wood, crescent moon desk with a single chair neatly tucked up against it. Behind that were four, tall, heavy-duty lights on dollies—the sort you might see on the production set of a holonovel. In the back of the room, stiff and trembling, was a single figure, bound to a chair.

From a cosmological perspective, three days meant nothing at all. Between the Big Bang and the inevitable Heat Death, an incomprehensibly vast amount of time would pass. What were three days from that perspective, juxtaposed against billions of trillions of years?

And yet, time always had a penchant towards cruelty. Death, genocide, extinction—these were not complicated matters in eyes of the unforgiving wheels of time. Moons and meteors have struck planets teeming with life and, when the energy released by the force of the impact caused the rocky surface of the planets to melt, rendered them entirely entirely inhospitable in a mere few hours. Volcanoes have erupted and their pyroclastic flows have carbonized entire civilizations, transforming living flesh into stone, in mere moments. Power stations have melted down and, in ninety seconds, a thousand years of radiation plumed into the air, caught up by air currents and distributed across the whole of the planet.

A dying star could swallow up,m an entire system in thirty seconds.

A dying Loth wolf could haunt a child for life.

For the average human being, three days was not a long time at all. However, for Qui-Gon Jinn, three days was a life time. In three days, he could have lost everything.

“Obi-Wan?” he whispered.

The being, the creature tethered to the chair didn’t move, didn’t speak. Qui-Gon’s breath caught in his throat and, for one second, one horrible, horrible second, he was afraid that the young man in the chair was dead.

However, when he lifted his ‘saber, the green light caught the empty, hollow stare of two blue eyes, following him in the dark. In them, they held no recognition for the master. In them, they held nothing but empty resignation.

“I have told you already,” the young man said sluggishly, averting his eyes out of fear or acceptance. “There are five lights. I have seen them. There are five lights,”

“Obi-Wan, I am here. Look at me. I am here,” Qui-Gon urged, his voice surging with desperation as he cupped the young man’s face in his palm.

Initially, Obi-Wan closed his eyes and weakly shifted away—a movement that would’ve been called a flinch, had Obi-Wan not been so resigned to the inevitability of pain. However, when the warm hand lingered on his face, gentle and kind, he stirred. Slowly, his eyes cracked back open and lifted to meet Qui-Gon’s.

“Master?” he asked, his voice tired and feeble. His eyes, however, had lit up and Qui-Gon merely smiled, too overcome with relief to speak.

“Yes. I am here now, young one,” he insisted, carefully unclasping the restraints around his student’s head and neck and midsection and ankles and wrists—wrist. One only arm had been restrained. Only one arm was still connected to his padawan’s body, the other having been severed at the shoulder.

A dizzying, icy sense of nausea washed over the master, but was quickly tucked aside. There would be time to address such grief at a later time.

“I am not so young,” Obi-Wan said with a weak chuckle, his head falling forward limply as it was freed from its restraint. Qui-Gon settled closer, allowing the boy to rest against him as he continued to work on the restraints.

Perhaps ‘boy’ was not the right word. Obi-Wan was seventeen now. He was hardly a boy anymore. He was growing steadfastly into a fine young man and Qui-Gon’s heart surged with pride at the very thought of it.

Qui-Gon’s heart surged with pain as the young man curled against him, feeling so small against him.

“Time is a relative thing, padawan,” Qui-Gon mused, eager to continue the banter, sensing the need to keep Obi-Wan awake until they were certain that he wasn’t lingering on Death’s doorstep. “You are young to me,”

Obi-Wan merely hummed but said nothing else. His end of the bond was tight and stunted. He was shutting himself off from his master. Qui-Gon once again felt something painful swelling inside of him. He wasn’t sure whether or not he should reprimand the boy. Now more than ever, their bond needed to be open.

Now more than ever, Qui-Gon needed something to hold onto, something to assure him that his student was still alive.

“The negotiations took longer than expected,” Obi-Wan commented.

Qui-Gon stiffened. “Yes,” he said. “And... for that, I apologize. Obi-Wan... I apologize,” His voice had become rough. He pressed his forehead against Obi-Wan’s for a moment, trying to convey, across their bond, the depth of his apology.

_I’m sorry I could not find you sooner. I’m sorry I was not faster. I am sorry you have suffered for so long._

Obi-Wan, in return, sent only unending forgiveness.

“It would have gone faster if I was there,” he said. “I am better with people, after all,”

“Are you, now?” Qui-Gon asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Oh yes, very much so. It’s my youth and charm and wit,” he boasted quietly, pressing his face against his master’s shoulder and gritting his teeth as a spasm of pain wracked up his spine. “...I’m devilishly handsome, you know. That tends to help...” he concluded weakly, his voice growing fainter and fainter as the energy seemed to sap from his with every passing second.

“An incurable flirt and a menace, that’s what you are,” Qui-Gon huffed as he undid the final restraint. Obi-Wan collapses against him, his whole body trembling from fear and cold and pain and exhaustion.

“And... and just how long were those negotiations?” the young man asked, struggling to keep his voice from cracking as tears suddenly pricked against his eyes.

Qui-Gon fell silent. Pain radiation from the padawan in waves. He held his student tight, feeling the ragged rise and fall of Obi-Wan’s chest against his own, feeling the young man’s stuttering breath against his neck. Obi-Wan was _alive._ That’s all that mattered. He was alive.

“Three days,” Qui-Gon croaked out Obi-Wan shuddered against him.

“Is that all?” he asked incredulously, his voice quavering as if he might burst into tears at any second. “I had no idea. It was... rather difficult to keep track of it all. They... didn’t let me sleep much. It felt like weeks and weeks. Only... only three days...” he whispered, and his eyes flickered shut, defeated. “Only three days...”

Qui-Gon glanced down, only for a moment. He wasn’t sure what he had expected to see—his face was covered in blood and bruises and burns, his nose was broken, and one of his eyes was nearly swollen shut, however, he was still recognizable. He hadn’t been mangled to the point of incomprehension, he didn’t look starved and emaciated, he hadn’t lost his ability to snark and quip. Three days wasn’t very long at all.

Qui-Gon swallowed thickly and both parties fell silent once more, until Qui-Gon maneuver an arm beneath the boy’s legs.

“I can walk,” the ailing padawan insisted, shifting away from his master’s hold without much avail.

“I would prefer it if you didn’t,” Qui-Gon urged, wrapping his other arm around Obi-Wan’s back as if to make his intent clearer.

“And I would prefer it if you wouldn’t smack your lips every time you drink tea and yet... it seems we cannot always get what we want,” Obi-Wan mused.

“Cheeky brat,” Qui-Gon scolded breathlessly, tugging very lightly on his student’s lengthy padawan braid. He felt, where the young man’s face was tucked against his shoulder, Obi-Wan’s lips twist into the smallest of smiles.

“Really master. I can walk,” Obi-Wan insisted.

“Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should,”

At that, Obi-Wan huffed. “They took my arm, not my leg. I can still...” A pause. Obi-Wan’s voice was cracking. “I can still walk...”

Qui-Gon’s heart knotted itself up in sympathy. Obi-Wan had always been a very prideful creature, often reminding Qui-Gon of a stubborn tooka—solitary, chin tipped high and chest puffed out, and a particular affinity towards cleanliness. He pushed a wave of comfort across their bond—this was not something to be ashamed of. However, he remained steadfast in his answer: “No, padawan,”

Obi-Wan was silent. For a moment, Qui-Gon thought that, perhaps, his student would comply. However, when he began lifting the young man, Obi-Wan stiffened and once again resumed his struggle.

Qui-Gon, growing exasperated, chastised sternly, “Obi-Wan!”

“Master, _please_. I can walk. Let me walk,” the young man begged, willing to abandon his pride for this simple request. The subtext behind the words, however, was clear: _Master please. I feel helpless. Let me do something of my own accord._

Qui-Gon swallowed thickly and slowly withdrew his hands. “Lean on me,” he instructed, compromising. Obi-Wan rose to his feet, shaking like a newborn fathier, and acquiesced, clinging onto his master with the only arm he had left.

They paused for a moment, just beside the door, when Obi-Wan cried out, “Wait!” and twisted away from his master. He shambled meagerly towards the desk and chairs and every step he took faltered. With his one arm, he reached up, hesitating, and placed his hand on the glassy surface of each light, counting them.

Qui-Gon felt a wave of grief surge though the Force as they young man whispered, his voice choked by an incomprehensible pain, “Four lights... there were always... there were only... _oh._ Four lights...”

Suddenly, his knees gave way and Qui-Gon lunged forward, sweeping the young man into his arms.

“Forgive me, Master,” Obi-Wan whispered, and Qui-Gon’s breath caught in his throat. “It seems I have... once again overestimated my own strength,” His voice was soft, hardly above a whisper, and carried a tone of fatalistic defeat that sent chills down Qui-Gon’s spine.

“Would you like me to carry you, Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon asked. There was a part of him that wanted Obi-Wan to refuse, just as he always did, but he did not.

Obi-Wan’s eyes slid closed. “I wouldn’t mind,” he said, sounding somewhat aloof, as if he was trying to maintain any shred of dignity he had left. “You shouldn’t have any trouble lifting me,” His eyes cracked open once more and that cheeky smile one again ghosted across his lips. “I’ve lost about ten pounds,”

“Oh?” was all Qui-Gon could say as he shuffled off his cloak and draped it over the trembling young man, careful to avoid the tender patch of flesh where his arm used to connect to his shoulder.

“I’ve found an excellent secret for weight loss,” Obi-Wan continued, his eyes flickering shut as Qui-Gon pulled him into his arms. This time, when his master lifted him, he didn’t protest at all.

Qui-Gon couldn’t bear to hear anymore. He knew what the punchline was—remarkable how much weight you can lose by simply removing those pesky extra appendages—but even now, as Obi-Wan tried, once again, to humor his way out of trauma, his voice was heavy and breaking. Qui-Gon tucked his student’s head against his chest and, of a moment, just held him.

“Save your energy, you can tell me about it once we get back on the ship,”

Obi-Wan didn’t respond much after that.

-

The anecdote “time heals all wounds” was not a phrase that Qui-Gon was unfamiliar with. It was quite a popular saying across the galaxy. However, as he gazed at his apprentice—curled up in the corner of his bed, upright and leaning against a wall with his hand clutching feebly at the neatly bandaged place where his other arm used to be—Qui-Gon couldn’t help the wave of cynicism that washed over him. Some wounds are irreparable. Not even time could restore a missing limb.

“I came to bring you something to eat,” Qui-Gon said, stirring Obi-Wan from his stupor. The master set the plate of vegetables and stewed meat down on the little table set up in his student’s quarters on the ship.

“Thank you, Master,” Obi-Wan said politely and bowed his head—a gesture that looked remarkably incomplete with one arm suddenly missing. The young man carefully crossed climbed out of bed and crossed the room. He sat at the table and reached for the utensils and began scarfing down his food just as ravenously as he always had.

It had been only three days since Obi-Wan’s rescue. Three days was not a long time for somebody to recover and yet Obi-Wan was doing a remarkable job of pretending that he had recovered fully both emotionally and physically, though the incident had not been discussed—not in any meaningful way, that is. And worse still, Obi-Wan remained completely closed off to his master.

“How is it?” Qui-Gon asked, gesturing to the stewed meat.

Obi-Wan shrugged. “It’s alright. Maybe a little rubbery,” he complained. “But I’m hardly one to complain,”

Qui-Gon merely hummed at this response. It was hardly surprising—of all of Obi-Wan’s senses, he valued his sense of touch the most. Textures fascinated him endlessly. He was particularly fond of coarse fabric, and had a habit of rubbing the sleeves of his cloak between his fingers if ever he felt too terribly anxious. This rule applied to food as well: he was very much a texture eater, preferring the texture of the food over the flavor itself.

“Could use a little more salt,” Obi-Wan hummed, just to get a reaction out of his master. And, a reaction he got.

Qui-Gon rolled his eyes huffed, “You put far too much salt on your food as it is, Obi-Wan. Honestly, I don’t know how you can stomach it,”

Obi-Wan flashed a grin and said simply: “It’s good,”

Then, the silence returned. Obi-Wan, in his growing up, had also become somewhat quieter than he had been in his youth. Though he still snarked and sassed and quipped, he no longer felt the need to chatter endlessly simply for the sake of making noise. Silence had become a comfortable thing for Obi-Wan, no longer an awkward, uncomfortable thing to avoid at all costs.

However, since his rescue, Obi-Wan had become quiet and withdrawn to an almost alarming degree. He struggled speaking without first being spoken to. He struggled making eye contact. He occasionally fell silent midway through a conversation, as if all the confidence in him had suddenly evaporated.

Qui-Gon watched as Obi-Wan drew his plate closer—forgetting for a moment that he only had one arm to maneuver things with—and curled in on himself, ever so slightly, as if afraid his meal might be taken from him. It was such a surreal sight, watching his back fold and curl over—he always had such a _thing_ about maintaining good posture. And yet, here he was, small, and injured, and curling in on himself. He reminded Qui-Gon so very much of a small child. How was it possible that a mere three days of torture could reduce the fine, sharp young man into nothing more than a frightened child?

Time was cruel like that.

Qui-Gon felt cruel for thinking such a thing.

How old was Qui-Gon Jinn? Fifty? Sixty? How old was Obi-Wan Kenobi? Thirteen? Seventeen? Did it matter? From Qui-Gon’s perspective, Obi-Wan would always be so painfully young. Far to young to endure such suffering.

He knew what Obi-Wan had suffered. He knew what they had done to him. Obi-Wan spared no detail in his detached, clinical retelling. At first, his captors had sought information on the Jedi—they asked questions about the Archives, about holocrons, about lightsaber construction, about the schematics of the Jedi Temple. And Obi-Wan, brave and strong, had very resolutely refused to answer.

Then, after it became very apparent that Obi-Wan, stubborn and proud, would not be forthcoming, the name of the game changed: reconditioning.

The experiment itself had been simple—four lights were set up and Obi-Wan was asked how many lights there were. He would, of course, answer: “Four.” This answer was punished immediately and brutally—usually either with beatings or electrocution. The punishment lasted an undeterminable amount of time; sometimes it would go on for nearly a half an hour, other times it would only last a minute or two. Always inconsistent, always changing—that was important. Then, the man at the desk would say, “No, you are wrong. There are five lights.” He would pause a moment and then he would ask, “How many lights are there?” and the cycle began again.

At some point, his captors grew vicious. He was warned, in no uncertain terms, “There are five lights, Jedi. Answer incorrectly again, and you start losing fingers,”

He hadn’t expected them to follow through with their threat.

“Four lights,”

He lost a thumb.

“Four lights,”

And a ring finger.

“Four lights,”

And a pinkie.

It was against the Jedi Code to lie. Obi-Wan did not want to lie. He did not want to break the Jedi Code. But, more than anything, he had a duty to his people. He could not reveal their secrets. Surely, if they weasel this lie out of him, they could weasel any other information they wanted out of him.

“There are only four lights...!” he had croaked, his voice hoarse from screaming himself raw.

They took his whole arm.

He wished he had lied.

“I’m... I’m not hungry anymore,” Obi-Wan said abruptly, and pushed the plate away.

Qui-Gon reached out and caught Obi-Wan’s hand. “Enough of this. You cannot hide from your demons forever, padawan. Something is causing you distress. Please, padawan... I want to listen. Tell me what you are thinking about,” Qui-Gon requested, his eyes ancient and impossibly kind.

Obi-Wan averted his gaze and Qui-Gon suddenly felt nauseated, his stomach tying itself in knots. The young man retracted his hand slowly, unsure, and Qui-Gon’s gaze remained fixed on his apprentice until, at last, he spoke:

“Melida/Daan,”

Qui-Gon blinked. “Why that?” he asked.

Obi-Wan’s hand found its way to his robe, the coarse fabric tight between his fingers. “Would you ever abandon me again?” he asked, so softly that he almost couldn’t be heard.

Qui-Gon nearly recoiled at the question. Melida/Daan was far in the past—they had spent a great deal of time working through the damage that had been done, repairing the rift between them. It had been a long time since they had spoken of it. Qui-Gon couldn’t help but to wonder _why now?_

“No,” he said, firmly, immediately. “Never. I would never abandon you, padawan. Not ever again,” he assured, just as he had many times in the past.

“What if I was no longer worthy of being a Jedi?” Obi-Wan asked, and Qui-Gon’s mind almost couldn’t process the absurdity of the question.

“You, Obi-Wan Kenobi, are more worthy of being a Jedi than half of the masters on the council,” he said, a little smile appearing on his lips. This was an old joke between them: Obi-Wan knew Qui-Gon’s feelings towards the council well. However, this did nothing to lighten the mood.

“You don’t know that,” Obi-Wan turned back towards his bed and wobbled. Qui-Gon crossed their room and put a hand on his back, guiding him back towards his bed.

“Rest,” he urged. “You’re still weak,”

“I’m fine, Master,”

Qui-Gon quirked a brow. “I suspect, when we return to the Temple, Master Che will have you put straight into a bacta tank,”

Obi-Wan wrinkled his nose and curled back up in the corner on his bed. “I don’t need bacta, Master. Besides I hate the way-“

“That it feels on your skin. Yes, I’ve heard. You’ve told me many times, padawan. However... I think this time necessitates it,” Qui-Gon said, his eyes flickering towards Obi-Wan’s severed shoulder.

Obi-Wan curled away.

“Please,” Qui-Gon said softly, sitting beside his padawan on the bed. “Obi-Wan, I need you to tell me what’s going on,”

“...I lied,” he said softly.

“How do you mean?” Qui-Gon asked, putting his hand on Obi-Wan’s uninjured shoulder. The young man leaned into the touch and shuffled closer, soaking in the warmth of his master like a sponge. The master wrapped an arm around his student and pulled him closer.

“I-I lied to you. I told you... that they didn’t- that I didn’t every...” Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut and his breathing became ragged.

“Take your time, young one. I’m here,” Qui-Gon urged.

A broken chuckle rumbled out of Obi-Wan’s chest. “I’m not that young,”

Qui-Gon smiled. “It’s all a matter of perspective,” he said softly and watched, with some horror, and the padawan’s face crumbled.

“I broke,” he whimpered. “At the end... they said... they said... I could sleep. They would let me sleep if I just said... if I... I-I told them there were five lights. And I-I... I just wanted to sleep. Master, all I wanted was to sleep. I wanted to- it hurt so bad. I just wanted the pain to stop,”

Qui-Gon’s heart twisted in agony, and he pressed closer to his student, who tucked his head beneath his master’s chest.

“When I looked up... I really did see five lights. I really, actually saw five lights,” Obi-Wan whispered. “I-I failed. I broke. And I look back and I think... if-if they asked me... if they asked me to tell them about our secrets... if they told me I could sleep if I did... would I have done it? I... I think... I think I would have,”

“Obi-Wan, we are not pottery. We are not beings made of mud and fired in a kiln. We are flesh and blood. We cannot crack, we cannot break. My padawan, you are not broken. You did not fail. Your only job, your only mission was to _survive,”_ Qui-Gon assured. “We will get through this. You and I, Obi-Wan. You and I together,”

Obi-Wan closed his eyes. “I’m okay,” he said and Qui-Gon chuckled.

“Yes,” he said, shifting just enough to grab the scratchy blanket from the end of the bed and tugged it up over his shoulders. “I’m sure you are. But, if you aren’t, that’s alright too,” he said.

Obi-Wan shifted, just slightly. “Master... will you stay with me?” he asked and, finally, Qui-Gon felt his padawan’s side of the bond crack open.

“Of course, padawan. Always,”

As Obi-Wan drifted to sleep, tucked away in the safety of his master’s arms, he couldn’t help but think that it was a pleasure to have lived in this galaxy with the stars and the Loth wolves and his master—all of whom, from somebody’s perspective, were eternal.

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Tess: 
> 
> The other two stories have significantly less maiming, I promise.


End file.
